Through Smeared Mascara (I looked into your eyes and saw a light)
by hoglee
Summary: She picks up the phone and dials the one person in this world she knows will understand how one tiny blue cross can shatter your life. She dials without thinking that it's 2am or that she hasn't spoken to this girl, really spoken to her, for a year or more. 'Hello' a sleep-soaked voice blears. 'Quinn. It's Rachel. I need your help'. POST 'I DO' - Quinn helping pregnant Rachel.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Short chapter to start, but necessary - sorry!**

Rachel stared at the pregnancy test for a full minute but she had known what it would say before she even took it. She'd known what the first test would say before she saw it, by this third time she was only feeding her own panic. She rocked on the top of the toilet seat, sitting on her hands and watching the tap drip in a kind of trance. She could feel her mind running at a thousand mile hour, thoughts blurring as they passed, but at the same time it was frozen in numb disbelief.

Eventually she realises it's kind of cold in that bathroom and her feet have disconnected from circulation. She wiggles her toes, watching, childishly fascinated, as they move without her feeling it and, eventually, the pink glow of blood suffuses across her skin once more. Then she slides off the loo and pads out of the bathroom on the hunt for a coffee. She really wants a vodka or something suitably tranquillising, but, without really thinking about it, she has slipped into the maternal mind-set and opts instead for the next best thing.

The gurgle of the somewhat clunky second-hand machine is oddly soothing and she remembers something Brittany had said about water being happy and thinks, not for the first time, how smart that girl really is.

It is when she is sat on the worn couch, legs tucked up under her fluffed dressing-gown, that she realises she should do something about what she just found out. She's an adult for real now. But, with a curious detachment he realises that all she really wants to do is cry. Hard. Preferably for ever.

And then she knows. And it is so obvious that she doesn't understand how it wasn't her first thought. She guesses her thought processing wasn't too great (she thinks once more of the vodka, wistful). She picks up the phone and dials the one person in this world she knows will understand how one tiny blue cross can shatter your life into a thousand jagged pieces that will never fit back the same way ever again.

She dials without thinking that it's 2am or that she hasn't spoken to this girl, really spoken to her, for a year or more.

'Hello?' a sleep-soaked voice blears.

'Quinn. It's Rachel. I need your help'.


	2. Chapter 2

Quinn rubs her eyes, yawning for what felt like the thousandth time that morning. If you could call 4am 'morning'.  
She's never seen the subway this empty: just her, a policeman coming back from the night-shift, and some guy slumped in the corner who could have been going backwards and forwards all night for all she knows.  
She has to keep forcing her eyes really wide open in an effort to stay awake. It would not be ideal for her to miss her stop on tonight (this morning?) of all nights. She's absolutely certain that Rachel's already going crazy with waiting and, not for the first time, wishes Yale wasn't quite so far from New York. There was so much in New York, The Met, The Broadway and Off-Broadway Shows, the Comedy Clubs, The Jazz Cafes, Rachel. She wonders idly if she should have made an effort to drop in on Rachel when she had visited - hell even just one time when she had been there. She did buy the goddamn metro passes after all. It's just... well, dropping in on Rachel's all very well but then what? Talk? Quinn laughs a little hysterically as she thinks of all the emotional soul-searching they're going to be doing together over the next few days. She hopes Rachel's bathroom is comfortable because that seems to be the only place they can open up to each other. She could probably psychoanalyse that to death if she wanted, but she's tired so she doesn't.  
Her stop is finally announced by the pre-recorded message on the tannoy ( Quinn is struck by this peculiar way to immortalise oneself. The woman speaking could be dead with only her voice left on earth, announcing all the stops on the underground years after she'd gone... she shakes her head, dog-like. She really is sleep-deprived) and Quinn heaves herself up in one oddly graceful stumble, slinging her duffle-bag over one shoulder. She looks around the platform a little uneasily; a group of clearly drunk men are eyeing her somewhat speculatively, and Rachel did warn her that the neighbourhood was, well, affordable.  
Drawing her hoodie a little closer round her, she paces firmly along the street, looking neither right nor left and rather thankful that her phone is worthless as she takes it out to read Rachel's directions once more. She smiles at their unnecessary (Rachel would disagree) precision. She even has a rough approximation of the number of paces along each street before turning, though, she is amused to find, Rachel has to take a lot more strides than she does.  
She quickly arrives and keys in the code to the main door that Rachel has texted her (it takes even Quinn's exhausted brain all of 5 seconds to work out that the numbers would spell out 'STAR' on a cell-phone; primarily because she expects nothing less from Rachel anyway) and pads up the stairs to the top floor. Ducking, she hooks out the spare key from it's place on the back of the letterbox flap (groping around in the dark it feels uncomfortably like some kind of metallic gynaecological examination, and she wonders if the whole world is trying to out her) and lets herself in, pausing hesitantly on the doorstep before nudging herself to carry on into the main room.  
To be honest, she's a little surprised that Rachel isn't throwing herself across the room to sob on Quinn's shoulder but, stepping further into the open-plan kitchen/diner/living-room, she sees why. The tiny brunette has fallen asleep after two solid hours of solitary grief for her lost dreams. Quinn knows she is being a little dramatic but the girl's appearance brings out that Yeatsian kind of sentiment in her. She is almost overwhelmed by the pity of it: this bright, crazy diva curled up in the foetal position, hand clutching an empty coffee-mug and last night's make-up clumped in the tear-tracks staining her raw skin.  
She thinks she might cry. Telling herself not to be so freaking selfish, Rachel is the upset one here, Quinn instead feels a tiny chuckle rise in her throat as she realises that her worry for keeping Rachel waiting was unwarranted. She thinks about carrying the girl through to the bedroom, but then she remembers that Brody will be there and that is probably the last thing Rachel wants right now. Instead, she pulls the throw from the back of the couch and gently covers the girl in, hap-hazard in rainbow quilting.  
Then, gently, she lowers her tired body onto the couch next to Rachel, unties her sneakers and loosens the laces but ends up lying back and succumbing to sleep before she can actually take them off.  
As she drifts, she feels the girl's cold feet pressing firmly into her leg for warmth and hears her sigh in content.  
She knows that it is for this, for her, that she has come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for being so awful with updates, exams make life hectic**.

_You wait for a silence, I wait for a word_

_Lie next to your frame, girl unobserved_

_You change your position and you are changing me_

_Casting these shadows where they shouldn't be_

Slow fingers of sunlight flex languidly to touch Quinn's face. She screws up her eyes in protest and stretches before cautiously looking around her.

Rachel is still asleep and, somehow, has reversed her position from the night before and now has an arm encircling Quinn's waist. All, apparently, without having woken up.

Absently stroking the brunette's hair behind her ears, she does not fully wake up until the girl sighs in pleasure and cuddles a little closer into Quinn's stomach. The blonde instantly comes to her senses and her muscles tighten in shock. She's with Rachel. Alone. Cuddling.

Oh my god. She feels herself freeze up like a rodent tensing to run. Rachel, she reminds herself sternly. Why did she come? She knew it was a mistake but she hadn't even thought, she just came. For Rachel. Just as she always had.

Deep breath. She looks fondly on the brunette's half-hidden face. She knows she couldn't leave even if she wanted to. Rachel needed her. Rolling her shoulders to release the cramping, she sinks back just as Rachel stirs.

The smaller woman looks up at her and smiles dopily. 'Hello'.

Forgetting everything, Quinn smiles. 'Hello you'.

'You came'.

'Yes'.

A slow smile curves Rachel's lips. 'I'm glad'.

Quinn gives a low chuckle. 'So you should be after all the effort I took to get here!'

Rachel nods and presses her forehead back into the blonde's stomach. 'Thank you'.

This time, Quinn recognises that Rachel's anxieties have hit her.

She gently touches the shell of her ear. 'Coffee, then talk?'

Rachel nods again, rubbing her red eyes. 'Two for me please'.

'Two sugars?'

Rachel pulls a face. 'No! Two coffees'.

Quinn looks at her for a moment and Rachel raises an eyebrow in challenge. 'Are you denying a pregnant woman her craving?'

'I'll get the coffees'

Rachel smiles smugly and allows Quinn to slide from under her to go to the kitchen.

'Oh, Rach?' Quinn calls as she waits for the machine.

'Mm?'

'Cravings don't kick in for another couple of months'.

'You gave in though'.

Quinn hears the smile in the girl's voice and rolls her eyes. Glancing around the kitchen area, she can tell that neither Rachel nor Brody are domestically savvy. The bin overflows with take-out containers and their coffee mugs are grubby with caffeine stains. She grimaces and makes a mental note to bleach them at the earliest opportunity. Not to mention buy Rachel a 'My First Cookbook'. You could just cook for her yourself, a voice rises before she can stop it. She represses the vision of Rachel and her setting up a weird 1950s style home and reproaches herself both for already being on the make with Rachel and having such a regrettable lack of ambition.

She takes the three coffees over to the sofa and sees that Rachel is sitting up and has been watching her.

The girl says nothing but looks bemused. 'Does the kitchen bother you?' she asks, confused.

Quinn places the cups carefully on the table, sliding coasters under each, much to Rachel's amusement.

'Samantha Stevens complex', she shrugs, a little embarrassed.

Rachel crinkles her brow. 'I can't believe the school bully secretly wanted to be a subservient housewife', she teases.

'I don't'. She's snapping and she can see Rachel draw back slightly. She sighs. 'Sorry, I, it's a sore spot, ok?'

Rachel looks intrigued but simply nods. 'Ok'.

Quinn smiles gratefully. 'Thank you'.

There is a pause. 'Although, I'm willing to make an exception in your case and blitz your apartment'.

Rachel bursts out laughing. 'Oh dear. I hadn't realised it was so awful'.

Quinn raises her trademark eyebrow, prompting Rachel to look round. She notes the overflowing kitchen bin, the coffee-ringed table, the sofa strewn with tissues and the pile of dirt and odd shoes amassed by the door. 'Oh'.

Quinn nods.

Rachel looks laughingly at the blonde's pained expression. 'Sorry'.

Quinn just shakes her head in disbelief and looks intently at her. 'You've got your coffees', she prompts.

Rachel looks at the cup in her hands and sighs. 'I'm pregnant', she says, unnecessarily.

Quinn nods and holds her eyes and Rachel knows that the blonde understand exactly the numbness and underlying terror which had engulfed her the moment she saw that little blue cross. Suddenly the bile rises and she has to choke back a frightened retching.

Quinn gives her a small, sad smile. 'I'm here' she repeats.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Sorry for taking so long. It's the age old story of exams I'm afraid. Anyway two more chapters on the way shortly to catch up.**

_It looked as though nothing much had happened_

_And perhaps nothing much had really_

_except that an era, an epoch, an attitude of mind, was ended._

_There would be other eras and epochs and attitudes of mind._

_But never quite the same._

_-Noel Coward, '1901'_

Quinn sips slowly on her own coffee, watching Rachel with an invested but not oppressive concern for which Rachel could cry in gratitude. Quinn does not panic as she knew Kurt would; tell her to abort and quit worrying as Santana would; go crazy and brow-beat Brody into marrying her as Puck or her dads would (and probably will, she thinks dolefully). Worst would be Finn who would have proposed to the terrified Rachel and ruined both of their lives in seconds. She tries not to over-analyse her feelings about that however.

Quinn just... listens. Quiet and serious, hunching a little into the neck of her hoodie against the morning chill, she just listens. Exactly as Rachel needs her to do.

''So it's probably not Finn's', Rachel discloses, worrying her lip as she frowns into her fast-cooling second coffee (the first had been swallowed in one go, scalding her throat raw).

Quinn gives a slow nod. 'At the risk of sounding too much like my psych professor, how do you feel about that?'

Rachel gives a tiny snigger despite herself and, tilting her head on one side, searches the white porcelain of the mug for answers. She lifts her head again to face the blonde. 'I'm not really sure. Some of me thinks it would be great if it were Finn's because he'd instantly commit to fatherhood and it would sort 'us' for ever, but...' Rachel chews nervously on her cheek and tries to read Quinn's companionably sympathetic expression. The girl nods in encouragement. 'Well, some of me thinks that those are the exact reasons I'm glad it isn't his' she rushes out quickly, as if this will soften the brutal truth for her own ears.

Quinn laughs gently. Sliding off her chair to crouch in front of the other girl, she takes one warm hand in her own and holds Rachel's worried gaze.

'I do understand, exactly' she promises, truthfully. 'Finn is the age-old dichotomy of dependable-but-dull-and-repressive personified'.

Rachel rolls her eyes and gives the girl a watery smile. 'Only you could crack the dictionary in a discussion about Finn, Miss Ivy-League', she teases.

Quinn smirks and for a second they just smile dopily at each other, Quinn trying not to notice the way Rachel's tilted head makes her hair catch the sun like polished oak furniture in candle light.

'So, what's this Brody guy like?' she asks, tentatively.

Rachel drains the last gulp of coffee and looks appraisingly at the coffee-table as she considers the question. 'He's the most charming guy I've ever met'.

'Including Saint Jesse?' Quinn mumbles, wisely ignored by Rachel.

She looks up at the brunette's hesitancy to continue. 'But...?' she prompts, not unkindly.

Rachel spends a good thirty-five seconds using spittle and the pad of her thumb to clean the white mug of the two grimy coffee trails marring its exterior before carefully answering. 'Commitment-phobe with a total lack of responsibility. And...' she falls silent once more and sinks back into abusing her lip with obnoxiously white incisors. She can feel Quinn's steady gaze watching her every twitch for clues as to how she is coping (the truth of which is: she isn't. Not at all). She lowers her voice, mindful of Brody (her boyfriend? It all seemed so childish now) asleep in the next room. 'Well, there's something a little off too. Don't ask me what; he's out a lot, you know? All the time. And he has a lot of cash for a college-kid. Actual hard cash too'. She twists the mug slowly between her two hands, hating the way the china cools so rapidly when its contents has been emptied.

As if reading her mind, Quinn takes Rachel's hands once more, both this time, and places the empty mug back on the table.

Her expression is inscrutable but from the tension in her posture, Rachel rather suspects that Quinn is not happy with Brody. 'You can imagine what Kurt thinks', the brunette adds with a nervous laugh.

Quinn smiles, humourlessly. Yes, she could, and the worst thing was: he was probably right. People did a lot of things to pay for college; everything from cleaning to drug-dealing and prostitution was fair game. Judging by the secrecy, Quinn would have to assume one of the latter. Wryly, Quinn wonders why she is even surprised that Rachel has managed to embroil herself in the most theatrical pregnancy scandal possible. Then, not content with getting pregnant with a decidedly shady guy's offspring, she calls in her old high school bully who's been tragically in love with her for years to come and... do what?

Quinn tries not to allow her mind to succumb to the pressing terror of helpless inactivity, painfully aware that it is her job to be to Rachel what she herself needed when she was pregnant. A strong friend and supporter who had some idea of the hideous fear of it all. Of a life shattered and left to a young girl for her to piece back together, confused and scared.

She breathes as deeply and surreptitiously as possible – not wanting to alert Rachel to her own panic as well.

Right Quinn, she preps herself, one step at a time.

Get Rachel out of the house with all of its negative Brody-and-pregnancy-test-associations (perhaps Santana was right and she needed to stop spending so much time 'rubbing shoulders' with her psychology professor) and take her to wherever the hell in New York she could actually drink the hot chocolate.

She squeezes the girl's hands once more before letting go and heaving herself up, legs creaking uncomfortably. 'C'mon you' she says gently. 'Let's go for a walk'.

Rachel looks at her for a moment, and for once Quinn has no idea what the girl is thinking. Then she pushes up from the sofa and nods.

Bumping Quinn's shoulder softly with her own, she smiles a little.

'Thanks', she mumbles.

The word seeps sweetly into the dust-hazed air as she sneaks next door to change, hopefully without waking the men-folk (if one could include Kurt in that description, which one probably couldn't).

Quinn looks at the now closed door, dazed. 'Yeah' she mumbles back.

**Review?**


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Sorry, I know this is short again, but on the plus side, updates should get more regular now.**_

_Do I dare disturb the universe?_

_In a minute there is time _

_for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse..._

_I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,_

_And I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker,_

_And in short, I was afraid._

_T.S Eliot, The Love-song of J. Alfred Prufrock_

They are silent as they wander down the road to the vegan café - its proximity being one of the main reasons that Rachel loved the apartment so much. The morning is crisp, a freshly ironed shirt. It's still only February. Quinn forgets sometimes, cooped up indoors all day studying or drinking with her friends. She knows it's silly, but it seems to her one of the worst parts of college. She's always been self-sufficient, able to cook, do laundry, iron, all with comparative ease, so the independent nature of college-life didn't upset her. But she has always loved the passing of the seasons. Paradoxically, there is something very dependable in the very change. And something exquisitely, painfully beautiful and raw in every quarter. The naked winter branches reaching out through icy air to grasp each other as parted lovers; the fruit blossoms falling like snow to form Titania-like bowers in the park; a thousand flowers entwining their stalks and the swan-song of golden leaves blissfully united in death. She needs the air, space, life. She knows she's lucky to be on such a beautiful campus but sometimes she just wants to drive far, far away - from every last neo-gothic turret and sharp-faced professor.

She scuffs her foot, irritated by her own lapse into nonsensical meanderings. She sees Rachel startle at the disruption in their steady footsteps and mumbles an apology.

Rachel however, seems to have been roused from her thoughts and now looks closely at the blonde for the first time in months.

Quinn tries not to look away, and the two slow to a stop as Rachel's scrutiny intensifies. She swallows. Suddenly, she is terribly aware of every inch of her skin. The tips of her ears burning raw from the cold. The fringe of her scarf teasing her collarbone uncomfortably so she needs to itch it away. Every muscle tautening as she fights the urge to twitch away from the examination. She has not felt this vulnerable since her own pregnancy.

Slowly, as if to a scattish kitten, Rachel raises a hand and tenderly tucks the fluttering fringe of Quinn's scarf under the collar. Soft hands graze over warm skin and the touch feels ridiculously intimate. Quinn tries to swallow without the other girl noticing but her throat sticks and she has to clear it.

Rachel still hasn't looked away and now Quinn can't. It's unbearable - stuck between her instinct for flight and her need _not_ to fight this. Her.

The traffic is beginning to pick up a little now, despite the neighbourhood being kind of out of it. The draught from the cars lifts the tendrils of Rachel's hair. 'You're not happy', she murmurs, and, after a second of shock, Quinn feels her whole body slump. She turns away and starts walking again, matched but the brunette.

'Yale is...' Quinn searches for the word and Rachel waits, pushing her hands deep into her pockets for warmth.

What was it? Big. Loud. Rich. Excessive.

Pretty, but not in a way that Quinn could really connect with. It reminded her of watching Rachel sing a power-ballad. It was thrilling, it was huge, it was _sexy; _but there was no soul behind the eye-shadow. It lacked the gut-wrenching intimacy of 'Rolling in the Deep' or 'Need You Now'. It wasn't that the power-ballad wasn't spectacular; it was that it left you hungry for the depth of her more emotional performances.

'It's lonely', Quinn concludes, surprised. That is exactly it. Despite all the great courses and people at Yale, she can't help but feel a certain disconnection, some distance from them. Perhaps she should use Rachel-analogies to examine her feelings more often - it worked surprisingly well.

Rachel nods and, as they draw up to the café, leads Quinn in.

'Two hot chocolates, please' she orders pleasantly, before turning to the blonde with an encouraging smile. 'We're going to talk. Pick a table and I'll bring the drinks over'.

Quinn nods and, after a moment's hesitation, slides into the window seats.

Rachel smiles as she brings over the steaming mugs. 'Do you chose the window so you can people-watch or so you can easily break out if the conversation makes you anxious?' she only half-teases.

Quinn blushes and thankfully takes the mug, warming her red fingers on it. 'A bit of both', she admits with a small smile.

Rachel returns it, before grimacing and putting the mug back on the table after one sip. 'Scalding' she winces. 'At the rate I'm getting through hot beverages with you, Miss Fabray, I'll have no tongue by the end of the week'.

Quinn chuckles and tries not to think about the areas of her mind that roused unbidden on hearing those last few words.

Rachel gives her an expectant look over her mug, and Quinn sighs. 'Y' know Rach, we really should be focusing more on you right now'.

Rachel waves her hand dismissively, grinning. 'Nah, you've got a good 7 months to come when all I'll be doing is talking your ear off about how worried I am - I'll let you have your turn first'.

Quinn laughs, and reluctantly speaks, knowing the girl will brook no argument. 'I just - I like my Yale friends, don't get me wrong, but I, well I just don't have anyone... special'.

Rachel's brow crinkles in confusion. 'Special' she repeats. 'Like, a boyfriend?'

Quinn snorts and shakes her head. 'I don't think so'.

The words seem to hold a particular weight for the blonde and Rachel scrutinises the words to discover the private joke but comes up blank.

Quinn gave her an appraising look, wondering if this was the right time. But then again, would there ever be a right time? She purses her lips and decides to rush it all out. 'Aside from the fact that it would be a girlfriend now, not a boyfriend' she reveals, determinedly staring at her own hands wrapped around the mug. She refuses to look up to see Rachel's shocked eyebrow raise, and continues. 'That's not really what I meant. I just mean someone who gets... me, I guess. I mean, I know I can be a bit of a mess', she adds nervously. 'But, well, I, I just need someone...' in her head she continues. In her head, she tells Rachel 'like you' and the brunette realises some fraction of what she means to Quinn. In her head, this is where their lifetime together begins.

But she's a coward, and instead finishes 'just a really great friend, I suppose', somewhat lamely.

Rachel frowns for a minute, still hung up on Quinn's rather underwhelming 'coming-out', but she pushes it to the side for now, focusing instead on the girl's need. Her face lights up. 'But you have one, Quinn'.

'I do?'

The girl beams impossibly brightly and Quinn can't help but smile in response. 'Me'.

Quinn looks dumbly at her.

'I know, I'm not going to be at Yale with you, but you need a friend, and, well, I could certainly do with another one now. We can skype every night after school, and we can start actually using those passes and visit each other every weekend, and we could really become part of each other's lives - survive Freshman year together!'

Quinn gapes and Rachel turns suddenly nervous. 'I mean, if, if you want to?' she back-tracks.

'No, Rach, It's perfect', Quinn breathes, hardly able to believe how much she loves the girl in front of her. 'It's absolutely perfect - you're perfect', she gushes before flushing. 'I, it sounds great. Uh- thanks, Rach'.

Rachel is uncharacteristically shy. 'Quinn?'

The blonde's eyes warm to hazel as they hold Rachel's in tender adoration. 'Yeah?'

'We're kind of friends, huh?' she says, smiling at the familiar words.

Quinn smiles widely.

It seems stupid, after everything they've gone through together. If there's one thing that Quinn's learned from High School it's that she and Rachel were, not two halves of a whole exactly, but the only two 'wholes' shaped just so that they perfectly squish the kinks and craziness out of the other enough for both to function as reasonable human beings. Knowing this, the tentative offer extended to her once again seems, at best, overdue and at worst the understatement of the century. But it is them, and when have they ever managed to hold together their lives long enough to allow what should have been natural progress to develop? She nudges the brunette's knees gently with her own and her eyes promise more than she's ever given before.

'Yeah Rach, we're friends'.

**A/N: Please Review**


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